


fell in love

by savorvrymoment



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Drinking, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Gentle Sex, Injury Recovery, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 04:35:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26467288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savorvrymoment/pseuds/savorvrymoment
Summary: “I do not trip,” Lancelot says, louder than usual, tone all growly indignation.  “My body is a weapon, a sharpened blade.  I was trained in acrobatics and swordplay as achild…!”Or... Lancelot trips and breaks his ankle, and Gawain tries to make things better.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 106





	fell in love

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was inspired by some silly conversation on the Lancewain discord server, was supposed to be a crack!fic, and got out of control. Sorry? lol
> 
> I do want to include a quick warning that both Lancelot and Gawain are a little inebriated before/during the sex scene. I'm not tagging as dubcon because I don't feel it's applicable. No one is blackout drunk, no one is manipulating the other. They're both fully aware of what they're doing. But I wanted to go ahead and let you readers know, just in case.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Comments and kudos are loved. <3

If Gawain hadn’t seen it happen, he wouldn’t have believed it.

He’s seen Lancelot fight, seen the acrobatics Lancelot is capable of. The other fey moves with power and grace, has the sort of control over his body that others only dream of. To say he is clumsy or inept would be a grotesque lie. 

Which is why it’s so startling when he falls flat on his ass just as they’re leaving their hut. 

It happens so fast, it’s hard to tell what exactly goes on. There’s nothing on the ground besides dirt and grass, nothing the other fey stumbles over, and he’s not wearing his long cloak, nothing to get tangled between his legs and trip him up. It’s as though his feet just go in two different directions, in the _wrong_ directions, and then he’s on the ground.

Gawain’s right behind him, and he almost trips over him when he goes down. He steadies himself with a hand on the top of Lancelot’s head, then tries to stifle his laughter, because, “Gods, Lancelot, what…?”

Lancelot huffs, before pulling his legs underneath himself and trying to push himself to his feet. He doesn’t make it far, ends up back on his ass with a pained little grunt—a noise Gawain’s all too familiar with.

“Lancelot?” Gawain asks, circling him so he can see the other’s face. 

He expects Lancelot to be red with embarrassment. He doesn’t expect his face to be starch white, all the color drained away save for his ashen tears. It’s the same look he’d had nearly a year ago, the time when they’d encountered Paladins in the woods near the encampment—he’d been shot in the back by an archer and fell from his horse, dislocated his shoulder when he hit the ground. He’d gotten back up and continued to fight of course, but once the battle was won he’d collapsed, staring up at Gawain with this _exact_ same look…

“ _Lancelot_?” Gawain says, more urgent. He reaches down to feel the other’s shoulders, but both seem fine, even, neither fallen too low. 

“I’m fine,” Lancelot grouses, taking hold of Gawain’s shirt and using it as a handhold. He leverages himself up to his feet, very clearly not fine, huffing and grunting all the while, and Gawain supports him once he’s up. 

He’s not putting any weight on his left foot, leaning on Gawain instead. Gawain points out as much. “You’re favoring your left leg.”

“It’s fine, just a sprain,” Lancelot says. Then, with a tug at Gawain, “Come, I’m hungry.”

And while Gawain doubts that it’s ‘fine,’ he’s learned not to stand between the Ashman and his supper.

They hobble three-legged over to the fire. A few fauns are cooking the day’s hunt over the fire, rationing out bread and vegetables as well, while many other fey are already gathered around waiting to eat. They seem to all look up as Gawain stumbles over with his fallen partner, and Gawain can almost _feel_ the dark scowl on Lancelot’s face. A silent warning to them all, _don’t ask, don’t say a damned word._

Most of them look away, still cowed by the ex-Paladin even after so much time as passed. Anger and fear still linger, not as sharp and dangerous as it had been a year-and-a-half ago—back when Lancelot had first shown up at the camp battered and broken, Squirrel held securely against his chest—but the general sentiment is still there. And Gawain understands, he truly does. Not all know Lancelot like Gawain. Not all have seen his fierce loyalty on the battlefield, or listened to his quiet sorrowful confessions in the night, or heard his murmured affection and gasps of pleasure in bed.

Not all of them are Pym, either, who’d told the Ashman just after he’d arrived, _‘Being angry only hurts me, it does nothing to you. So I’m choosing to forgive you.’_

And now, at the sight of Lancelot hobbling over, Pym jumps up and hurries over. “What happened?” she demands, looking him over in concern. “You’re injured.”

“It’s fine,” Lancelot tells her, while Gawain says, “He fell.”

“He fell?” Pym asks, eyes widening, before addressing Lancelot again. “Goliath threw you?”

“Yes,” Lancelot lies, while Gawain simultaneously says, “No, he tripped.”

Pym blinks a few times, mouth opening then closing, before she says, “No, what really happened?” Then, leaning close to Gawain, she whispers, “Why’re you both lying? What, were you… ‘doing the jig?’ I won’t say anything, I swear.”

“ _Pym!_ ” Lancelot hisses, still leaning on Gawain and plenty close enough to hear. When Gawain glances over at him, the other fey is beet red, embarrassed. And well, Gawain figures, at least he’s not pale white anymore, looking like he’s about to pass out.

“I’m not telling tales. He really tripped and fell, I saw him,” Gawain says. “He’s just being proud.”

Pym looks Lancelot up and down, silent, before her lips begin to curl up at the corners. Then she’s choking back laughter, little chuffing noises sneaking out, her shoulders shaking. Gawain finds himself chuckling, unable to help himself, caught between her laughter and the look of complete outrage on Lancelot’s face.

“I do not _trip_ ,” Lancelot says, louder than usual, tone all growly indignation. “My body is a weapon, a sharpened blade. I was trained in acrobatics and swordplay as a _child_ …!”

Many of the fey seated around the campfire begin laughing at his outburst, and it seems to be the last straw for Pym. She tries to hide her laughter behind her hand, but her shoulders shake and the corners of her eyes crinkle up from her smile. Gawain can’t help but snigger, but he buries it against Lancelot’s skin, pressing his forehead to Lancelot’s temple.

“Come on,” Gawain says, gently kissing his partner’s cheek. “Sit down, let Pym look at you.”

“Yes,” Pym says, shaking her head and her laughter away. “Come, sit over here.”

She leads them over to an overturned log, a make-shift seat, and Gawain sits Lancelot down. The other fey collapses down with a sigh, left leg sprawling out in front of him, and Gawain kneels down next to him, starts with the leather laces on his boots. Pym sits in front of Lancelot, tucking her skirts underneath herself, and then reaches out to help. And as she puts her hands on his ankle, begins loosening the ties, Gawain watches Lancelot react… 

He doesn’t cry out in pain or flinch away—Gawain’s known the other fey long enough to suspect he’s been trained out of these responses—but every muscle in his body goes rigid, his eyes snapping shut and his teeth grinding together. Gawain grabs for him, lacing their fingers together and letting Lancelot hang onto his hand, and he warns, “Pym.”

“I know,” Pym says, glancing up at them. “His ankle is already beginning to swell. We need to get this boot off now or we’re going to end up cutting it off.”

“I like these boots,” Lancelot protests, and Gawain rolls his eyes. The Ashman, so subtly vain, meticulous about his look. Sometimes Gawain wonders if the Paladins knew this side of him. He’s fairly sure vanity is supposed to be a sin to the man-blood.

“I know,” Gawain tells him, quiet. Then, to Pym, “Get them off.”

“Yes,” Lancelot nods, then braces himself as Pym gives the boot a quick yank. 

Like Pym said, the Lancelot's ankle is already starting to swell. It’s also starting to take on that distinctly black and blue coloration that bodes ill. When she wraps a hand around it, palpating gently, Lancelot squeezes Gawain’s hand so hard he can feel all those small bones inside grinding against each other. He winces but pulls Lancelot’s hand to his chest nonetheless, a silent _‘I’m here, I know, and I wish you weren’t hurting…’_

“Your ankle is broken,” Pym announces, and Lancelot scoffs, except that with all the pain he’s swallowing down, it sounds more like a wheeze.

“My ankle cannot be broken,” Lancelot tells her, voice raspy. “I only tripped. It’s barely a sprain.”

“I thought you didn’t trip,” a nearby Tuskman says, smirking at Lancelot.

Gawain watches as Lancelot’s head practically does a one-eighty, lip curled up in a snarl, and he grabs the Ashman by the back of the neck before something regrettable comes out of his mouth. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you back to our cottage.”

“Yes,” Pym says, nodding as she stands. “Lie down in bed, get comfortable. I’ll be right there with a splint and some opium poppy.”

“I’m fine,” Lancelot objects one last time, but when Gawain throws Lancelot’s arm over his shoulder, Lancelot lets himself be pulled to his feet—or rather, to one foot. 

“Let’s go, I’ve got you,” Gawain tells him, and they begin the slow hobble back to their cabin. Some low laughter follows them away, and Lancelot tries to shoot a glare over his shoulder a few times. Gawain just drags him along, ignoring the others.

He gets Lancelot into their hut and sits him down on their bed, then starts to work on his clothing. He gets the remaining boot off while Lancelot shrugs out of his shirt, but when Gawain reaches for the laces on Lancelot’s trousers, Lancelot stops him with a muttered, “I’ll do it.”

Gawain glances at the other fey, at the light blush coloring his cheeks, and can’t help but smile. Perhaps he should find it irritating or insulting that Lancelot is still shy about these things—nudity and sex and arousal, just the whole ordeal of being known—but Gawain only finds it endearing.

So Gawain leaves him be, lets the other fey struggle out of his trousers while Gawain picks him out a loose tunic. He turns around when he hears the other fey folding up his clothing, and he finds Lancelot sitting up in the bed, completely naked. No smallclothes today, apparently. When Lancelot notices him ogling, the other fey glares, though his harsh look is somewhat undercut by his cheeks growing even pinker.

“Are you planning on giving Pym a show?” Gawain asks, handing Lancelot his tunic.

“I was planning on having supper then retiring with you, here, alone. That would not have required underclothes,” Lancelot grouses, pulling the tunic on over his head. It’s one of the tunics Lancelot has specifically to sleep in, for those nights when he’s writhing in his own skin and can’t sleep nude, so it’s plenty big enough to cover him. Still, he grabs for one of the furs and pulls it over his lap, further covering his knees and thighs.

Gawain sits next to him on the mattress, brushing the flyaway strands of hair away from the other’s face. “We’ll still get to spend the evening together, maybe not the way you intended, but…”

Lancelot sighs, clearly irritated, but still allows himself to be pulled to the side, allows Gawain to guide his head to rest on his shoulder. Gawain pulls the tie from the other fey’s hair, lets his fingers drag through the dark blond curls, and Lancelot sighs again, the sound less annoyed and more comfortable this time around. Gawain smiles to himself—his Ashman is too easy. Play with his hair, scratch and massage his scalp, and he’ll fold like cheap linen.

Pym returns in time with medicine and materials for a splint, and Gawain stays by Lancelot’s side, makes sure he drinks down the opium mixture and holds his hand while Pym binds his ankle. Lancelot suffers through Pym setting the break with his usual mask of silence, just closes his eyes and grits his teeth and breathes through the pain. 

But then it’s done, and Pym is telling them, “Now, you must stay off of it for at least a couple of weeks. Gawain, make sure he stays off of it, don’t let him just go about his business. I know how he is, he’ll decide he’s fine and just…”

“I am sitting right here,” Lancelot grouses. 

Gawain chuckles, promises, “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“He’ll probably get drowsy in a bit from the opium poppy,” Pym tells Gawain. “Just let him sleep. He needs the rest to start healing.”

“I know,” Gawain answers, grinning at her obvious worry. “Wine alone makes him drowsy. He’ll be asleep now in fifteen minutes.”

“I’m right here,” Lancelot complains. 

“I know,” Gawain says, doing his best to placate. “Just lie back, relax. I’ll go get us a bit of dinner, alright?”

“I _am_ hungry,” Lancelot allows.

And as they leave the cabin together, Pym leans close to Gawain and murmurs, “Make sure you pick a light cut of meat for him, or bring him only bread and vegetables. The opium may turn his stomach.”

“I know, Pym,” Gawain says, chuckling. Then, “I am grateful you care for his well-being. So many here still see him as a pariah, and it hurts me to see it.”

Pym stops, turning and scrutinizing him, before she goes to her tiptoes and hugs him. He sighs, hugging her in turn, and she tells him, quiet, “Lancelot has a kind and gentle soul. The people here that don’t see that have _chosen_ not to see it, and that’s their loss.”

“I’m glad you see it that way,” Gawain tells her, giving her a little squeeze before letting her go. He blinks watery eyes and tries to forgive himself—he doesn’t tear up over such simple emotion, but it’s been a stressful evening. Then, “Well, I better get him some dinner, before he comes out here looking for it himself. You know how he is about food.”

“Yes, go, bring him supper and keep him happy,” Pym says. Then, with a pointed finger, “And no sword fighting—of any kind!”

Gawain just laughs and waves her off, before heading back off to the campfire.

~*~

Gawain gets them both some dinner plated up… and then fends off a very worried Squirrel, promising that he’ll take the boy to visit Lancelot in the morning once Lancelot’s had a chance to get some rest… and then answers Nimue’s confused questions about what had happened, because she's seen Lancelot fight so ferociously and can’t believe what the others are saying… and then laughs along with Nimue once he’s assured her that yes, Lancelot had just tripped.

He shouldn’t laugh, he knows, but he just can’t help it. Nimue’s laughter is contagious, not to mention the mere fact that Lancelot—the Black Knight, slaughterer of Paladins, bane of the Church—broke his ankle because he tripped? Not because he was thrown from his horse in battle, or took a blow to the leg, but because he just _fell down_ …?

It’s so ridiculous, it’s hysterical.

By the time Gawain gets back to their cottage, Lancelot has already relaxed back into the bed, his head tilted to the side and his bad leg slightly elevated on a pile of furs. He’s asleep already, quietly snoring like he does whenever he sleeps on his back, and Gawain stands there in the entrance a moment—just looking, admiring, loving. 

He wonders sometimes how this happened, how they fought each other for years only to end up in each other’s arms. Wonders sometimes how he swears his soul was made to exist intertwined with Lancelot’s, when just a few years ago he did not believe in love. Wonders sometimes how his fondest memories these days are of those quiet evenings they’ve spent together, just smiling and drinking and laughing, sharing stories silly and somber alike, making gentle love underneath the furs…

He could stand and stare at the sleeping Ashman for hours on end, but he shakes himself, steps across the small cabin and sets their dinner plates and pitcher of cider down on the rickety wooden table. Lancelot wakes at the sound of Gawain moving around, but he only stretches and turns his head to the other side, curls falling across his face. Gawain smiles and goes over to the bed, covering his feet back up with the furs where he’s already kicked them off. 

Lancelot’s eyes crack open, and he regards Gawain with a sleepy, soft expression. It’s a look only Gawain gets, a side of the other fey only Gawain gets to see, and it never fails to warm Gawain to his very soul.

Gawain gives Lancelot’s good shin a little squeeze and says, “Have to keep your toes warm.”

“Mmm,” Lancelot murmurs in reply, nonsensical, eyes slipping shut.

“I brought dinner. Are you hungry? Or just sleepy?”

“Sleep,” Lancelot answers. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Gawain assures him. “It’s here for later, if you wake hungry.”

“Mmm,” Lancelot mumbles, nodding.

Gawain leaves him be, just sits down and begins to eat his dinner. It’s quiet, peaceful, darkness fallen and casting their little cabin in shadows. The candles leave a soft flickering glow, enough to see by but not overbearing. The sound of Lancelot’s breathing is even and steady—not snoring, so he’s not asleep again, not yet—and Gawain sighs…

Not exactly how he planned to end his day, but things could be worse. Things _have_ been worse, a lot worse at that. Lancelot will be fine—the Ashfolk heal quickly, or at least Lancelot does. Gawain doesn’t know how exactly the Hidden snakes Itself underneath Lancelot’s skin, but It makes the Ashman very resilient, hardier than appearances suggest. The other fey will be up and about again in no time—the problem is going to be keeping him down until then…

And it’s while Gawain is contemplating this, lost to thought, that Lancelot murmurs, “I apologize.”

“Hmm?” Gawain hums, looking over. Lancelot’s eyes are cracked open, regarding him blearily. Gawain questions, “Why do you apologize?”

Lancelot blinks a few times, then shakes his head as though trying to clear his mind. Then, “I try to be something worthy of you, so that when you look at me you’ll be pleased. But I always fall short.”

And Gawain just sits there, not knowing what to say because… the words are so strange and unbelievable he simply has no reply. “Lance,” Gawain says after a moment, tone soft and quiet. “Your mere _existence_ pleases me. There is no one, _nothing_ else that makes me happy in the same way that you do. Surely you know that.”

Lancelot sighs, his eyes slipping closed. “I shame you,” he says, apparently ignoring Gawain’s words. “The others think less of you because of me, because of the things I’ve done…”

“And you’ve made your amends—and still are,” Gawain interrupts, standing and crossing over to sit next to Lancelot on the bed. He reaches up to comb his fingers through Lancelot’s curls, and continues, “You and I are out daily with the other guards, putting our lives on the line to protect this village. Those people who speak ill shame themselves.”

Lancelot tries to turn his face away, shrug away from Gawain’s gently petting, but Gawain just follows him, persistent. Eventually, Lancelot says, “It seems now I can’t even walk properly.”

“What?” Gawain asks, and barely keeps himself from laughing. But the sentiment is just _so_ ridiculous… “Love, you are fey-man, not a god. None of us are perfect, we all stumble and fall sometimes—both literally and figuratively.”

Lancelot’s quiet for a long time after that, long enough that Gawain almost thinks the conversation is over. But then Lancelot says, “I… apologize.” 

Gawain almost starts the discussion right over from the beginning. They’ve come a long way in the past year—in both Lancelot opening up to him and in Lancelot actually listening to what he has to say. But Lancelot has endured more abuse over the years than even Gawain knows, and sometimes it takes more than one explanation and assurance before Lancelot comes around.

Though before Gawain can decide what to say, Lancelot murmurs, “I was taught as a child that a misstep could equal death. Those teachings have stuck with me.”

“Well, that is true,” Gawain allows. “That’s why we spar—practice our swordsmanship and footwork, especially with the youngsters and beginners. They have to learn so that they don’t make green mistakes with an actual enemy.”

“Yes,” Lancelot agrees. “But you just correct them, show them the right way. You don’t beat them for their mistakes.”

Gawain’s stomach sinks to his knees, and he suddenly feels like a cockroach for ever having laughed at this situation. He wants to apologize for the other’s pain, for everything he’s endured in the past, tell him he’d take away every horrible thing that’s happened if he could—but Lancelot doesn’t like when Gawain says those things, gets irritated and huffy, tells Gawain that he deserves to suffer the memories. So Gawain just strokes his thumb across the other’s cheek and murmurs, “Budge over, would you?”

Lancelot seems confused, until Gawain starts to lie down next to him in the bed, bumping hips and shoulders in the small space. Lancelot shuffles over with that, giving Gawain enough room to lie down on his side. The Ashman tips his head toward Gawain, his nostrils flaring as he scents the air between them, and those soft pink lips are just _right there_ for the taking. So Gawain leans in, gently nuzzling at Lancelot in a silent request, and smiles against Lancelot’s lips with the other fey accepts him.

It’s a slow, lazy kiss—Lancelot drunk on the opium and Gawain lost in emotion. The Ashman tastes like he always does, like burnt spice, familiar and oddly pleasant. When they part, Lancelot inhales hard, breathing in the scent of their kiss, their saliva mixed together lingering on his lips. 

All the sniffing had been disconcerting at the start of their relationship—most especially during and after sex—but Gawain is used to it now. Moreover, he’s figured out that it’s some sort of response Ashfolk have only to their lovers. Lancelot doesn’t do it to anyone else, doesn’t even do it in public, and he’s never been around any other fey in his adult life who would have taught him the behavior. But within the privacy of their own home, he very clearly takes comfort in the scent of Gawain’s skin…

And finds excitement in the scent of Gawain’s arousal.

Now, though, Lancelot seems too drowsy to have sex on the mind. He just lets his forehead lean against Gawain’s, then murmurs, “You didn’t finish your supper.”

“I’ll finish it later, once you fall back asleep,” Gawain assures him. Lancelot grunts, not impressed, but he doesn’t argue. And so Gawain just goes back to petting the other fey’s curls. Finally, because he feels like it needs to be said one more time, “Do you even know how happy you make me? You are _everything_ to me, and you are worthy of everything I have to give because… because you are _you_. You _never_ shame me…”

Lancelot silences him by leaning in for another kiss.

When they part, Gawain asks, “Do I not make you happy?”

“You bring me happiness beyond measure,” Lancelot replies. 

Another gentle kiss, then Gawain says, “Then go to sleep, rest, heal. Don’t worry about this any longer.”

“I love you,” Lancelot murmurs.

Gawain kisses his forehead, whispers, “And I, you,” and holds Lancelot until he falls asleep.

~*~

As Gawain feared, the next couple of weeks prove _difficult_.

Lancelot makes for a bad patient, always has and probably always will. According to Lancelot, Pym and Gawain are overreacting and nothing is actually wrong. His inability to admit weakness has him insisting that he’s fine, that he’s not in pain, that he doesn’t need more medicine, and that all of the general fuss is pointless. Gawain doesn’t know whether all his resistance is due to past experiences with the Paladins, if they’d never allowed him a chance to rest and heal when he was injured—a distinct possibility, Gawain fears—or if it’s just an ordinary character flaw. 

After all, Lancelot can be fiercely independent at times, and he’s stubborn as a damn mule. Mix that together, and you get a fey-man who will look you dead in the eye and proclaim he needs no help, all while struggling to simply pull on his britches overtop his splint. 

The boredom sets in fairly quickly, as well. Gawain still has his own duties to attend to during the day, so he tries to make sure Lancelot has plenty to do while he’s gone. He sets Lancelot up with menial tasks, sewing and stitching, and he borrows Nimue’s poetry books to keep in their cabin should Lancelot want to read. Still, there’s only so much he can do while he’s away, so he tasks the others with keeping an eye out, makes Pym and Nimue and Squirrel promise to check on Lancelot during the day—and he puts out a general declaration that if anyone sees the Ashman wandering about the village, they’re to drag his pretty ass back to the cabin.

Squirrel takes his ‘checking in’ duties very seriously—so seriously, in fact, that he gets in trouble a few times for shirking his own routine responsibilities. Gawain gives him a pass, though, just for now, because he seems to really be helping. He brings Goliath to the cabin every day, holds the big horse so that Lancelot can lean in the entryway and see to him, pet his nose and feed him treats. It makes for one less reason Lancelot might limp his way out of the cabin—and honestly, Gawain knows it’s the most likely reason he’d feel compelled to do so.

Squirrel also brings games and company, gathers a little group of his friends and settles in for an afternoon of dice and cards. Which is how Gawain usually finds them at the end of his day—gathered around the little wooden table, Lancelot’s bad leg propped up on a stolen footrest, all immersed in their game. It’s sweet, comforting, warms Gawain’s heart to know that Squirrel and his friends care so much for Lancelot, that they want to spend time with him, even look up to him. 

The boys will be young men soon enough, and Gawain can’t think of a better role model—a fey-man as strong of heart and soul as Lancelot, capable of overcoming such adversity, of not only recovering from his exploitation and abuse but finding purpose as well…

And then, about two weeks in, Gawain comes home to their cabin to find the little group around the table, dice out along with a few pitchers of mead and plenty of tankards. All three of the boys snigger when they see Gawain come through the entryway, while Lancelot just grins, lazy.

“What’s going on, here?” Gawain demands.

The boys all snigger again. Lancelot explains, “I felt like a few drinks.”

“Which is fine,” Gawain allows. “But why are _they_ all acting like drunkards?”

“They kept beating me at dice,” Lancelot says.

“I kept beating him at dice,” Squirrel announces, while his friends nod and laugh.

“They’re plastered,” Gawain says, gesturing outrageously. Then, when Lancelot shrugs, he points and growls, “They’re just children.”

“They’re twelve,” Lancelot protests, amidst a chorus of _‘hey’s_ and _‘I’m not a child’s_ from the boys.

“I’m thirteen,” a snake-boy complains.

“I’ve had drinks before,” Squirrel says.

“I’m sure, but having enough to get intoxicated is different,” Gawain says. Then, “Get out of here, all of you. And find some water or tea!”

The boys all scramble off, cowed by the tone of Gawain’s voice. One of them stumbles on his way out, knocking over a chair. Lancelot watches the spectacle with a crooked grin, before turning lazy eyes on Gawain. 

“I can’t believe you,” Gawain says, even though seeing the other fey so open and relaxed always does things to him, makes his belly swoop hot. Gawain always has a hard time staying angry with him—has a hard time _being_ angry with him in the first place.

“I think they tricked me,” Lancelot says. “They came back with a different set of dice when they left to get the mead.”

“They’re weighted,” Gawain says, filling in the blanks and laughing. “What little heathens.”

Lancelot chuckles, shaking his head in exasperation. He picks up the dice, left behind in the boys’ rush to leave the cabin, weighs them in his hand before tossing them on the table. He throws snake eyes, laughs, then says, “Yes, you can’t roll over a four, it’s impossible. We played for near two hours, and it never happened.”

“You never called them on it?” Gawain asks, brows climbing. 

Lancelot lifts a shoulder, answers, “It was amusing.”

“So, what were you wagering? What did we lose?”

“Alcohol,” Lancelot answers. “They insisted that if we won, we took a swallow of mead. I thought it was silly, but I didn’t think it would get anyone inebriated—until they started winning over and over…”

“What devious little shits,” Gawain grouses, beginning to rid himself of his armor.

“They’ve spent too much time around you,” Lancelot comments, and just smirks when Gawain looks back at him.

“You were the one that knew full well what they were doing, and just let it continue,” Gawain accuses.

“It was the most entertainment I’ve had in weeks,” Lancelot says. Then, “Come, will you play a few rounds with me?”

“Play a few rounds with a weighted set of dice?” Gawain says, laughing. “How drunk are you?”

“Only tipsy enough,” Lancelot says, picking up the dice and shaking them in his hand. Then, softer and with his head ducked down, “I, I miss you. I know it’s silly—you’re here every evening with me—but I’m used to being with you during the day as well and just… having your presence close by.”

And Gawain knows what the other fey means. He’d thought some distance might do their relationship good, but every time he looks to his side and sees Lancelot’s absence, he feels a stab of pain in his heart—worry and loneliness and sadness all wrapped up in one. And so Gawain nods, says, “I’ve missed you too, love. Pour me some mead, and let’s play.”

By the time Gawain’s shrugged out of his gambeson and pulled off his boots, Lancelot’s emptied out one of the boy’s tankards and filled it fresh. Lancelot tops off his own tankard while Gawain sits down next him, and Gawain lays an gentle hand on his partner’s back, affectionately bumping shoulders with him.

“How’re you feeling?” Gawain asks, before picking up his tankard and taking a long swig. It’s strong for mead, honey sweet but lingering sharp. He’s not surprised the young boys had been drunk.

“Good,” Lancelot answers him. “It’s near healed already, I think. It itches more than anything.”

“While you always amaze me,” Gawain says, “I doubt your leg has healed in only two weeks. But if it’s itching, that’s good.”

Lancelot nods, very obviously drinking Gawain in. This Ashman’s so beautiful in the moment, loose and pleased, the beginnings of crow’s feet crinkling at the corners of his eyes. He’s in nothing but an off-white undershirt and dark grey britches, barefoot, the bottoms of the britches cut so that they may be pulled on and off over the splint. He’s exuding that sort of sweet softness that drives Gawain mad, makes Gawain want to pick him up and lay him out on the bed, kiss him wet and dirty while undressing him slow…

Gawain takes another long drink of his mead and then gestures to Lancelot. “So, what are we wagering?”

“With weighted dice?” Lancelot says, then laughs. “Nothing valuable.”

“Oh, you won’t wager me your sword?” Gawain asks, teasing.

“I think not,” Lancelot answers, feigning exasperation. Then he throws the dice before a wager, much less a number, has been named. He gets snake eyes again, and they both laugh.

“Alright,” Gawain says, scooping up the dice. The idea’s already in his mind, playful smirk on his lips, so he proposes, “Then I wager a kiss.”

“A kiss?” Lancelot asks, raising a brow.

“Yes. A kiss,” Gawain decides. “If I roll snake eyes, I get a kiss on the cheek.”

“Alright, but what if you lose the wager?” Lancelot counters.

“You think I’ll lose?” Gawain asks, grinning.

“You _can_ roll a three, sometimes a four.”

“Alright, then you’ll get the kiss,” Gawain says. 

“I suppose that’s a fair wager,” Lancelot agrees. Then, gesturing, “Alright, go on.”

Gawain tosses the dice, then watches as they bounce and roll across the tabletop before eventually landing on one and two. He glances at Lancelot just as Lancelot ducks his head. The other fey is already flushed from the mead, but the red across his cheeks and nose now is deeper, more pronounced—all embarrassment. 

Gawain reaches over and runs his knuckles along Lancelot’s sharp cheekbone, murmurs, “I don’t understand how you still blush. You have no reason to be self-conscious.”

“Perhaps one day I won’t be,” Lancelot murmurs in reply. “But for now, you still burn me up inside.”

Gawain smiles gently, before leaning in and pressing a soft chaste kiss to Lancelot’s blushing cheek, to the ashtrails flowing down his skin. Lancelot grins when Gawain sits back, and Gawain pushes the dice over to him, says, “Alright, your turn.”

It goes on as such for a while, innocent kisses shared back and forth between rolls of dice and sips of mead—lips pressed to the forehead, to the jawline, to the temple, to the corner of the mouth. Gawain can feel the mead affecting him, making him lightheaded and carefree, turning his grins to giggles and turning his chaste kisses naughty. Lancelot’s always been a more stoic drunk, quiet and dreamy, but he tends to feed off of Gawain’s cheerfulness. Gawain finds the Ashman returning his wet, promising kisses and laughing along, happy and lighthearted.

Gawain gets a chance to kiss Lancelot's nose, but instead of a sweet kiss, he licks his way up the bridge. They both giggle and laugh, and Lancelot calls him _‘foul’_ , but at the same time, Gawain can see Lancelot’s nostrils flaring, his pupils dilated, his cheeks so pink. _Yes_ , Gawain thinks, and glances down at the other fey’s lap…

He’s not tenting his britches yet, but Gawain can see the shape of his prick, can see where he’s starting to fill up. Gawain swallows, throat suddenly dry, and glances back up to meet Lancelot’s gaze. And then Lancelot, blushing furiously, says, “Snakes eyes, kiss on my chest.”

“Mmm,” Gawain murmurs, then chuckles. “Alright, roll them.”

And so Lancelot rolls, hits a one and a one easy as that. Gawain smirks, then reaches over to untie and pull off the other fey's tunic. He’s left with Lancelot’s gorgeous torso cast golden in the candlelight, scars telling a story of battles won and survived. He leans over to press a gentle kiss to the deep crisscrossed scar on Lancelot’s shoulder, acquired from another fey knight’s dual blades, before he kisses his way down to Lancelot’s clavicle, trails his lips and tongue along the sharp line of his collarbone.

He goes lower from there, down to Lancelot’s pec, and nips lightly at the skin. The muscle jumps under his lips, a quick tense and release, and Gawain smiles, rubs his stubbled cheek against the skin on his way to Lancelot’s pebbled nipple. He seals his lips around him there, flicking his tongue how Lancelot likes, and revels in Lancelot’s long pleased sigh.

“I only asked for one kiss,” Lancelot murmurs, hand coming to rest on Gawain’s shoulder. 

Gawain leans up, presses one last kiss on Lancelot’s lips, and says, “Well, I took some liberties.”

Blushing and grinning, Lancelot pushes the dice over and says, “Your turn.”

Gawain almost protests. It’s clear where this is going, and while Gawain doesn’t mind a bit of teasing, it’s been long enough. He’s used to being intimate with Lancelot a few times a week at least, but they haven’t lain with each other since Lancelot broke his ankle. Lancelot understandably hasn’t been in the mood, and Gawain would never ever push him. But now that Lancelot seems to be hot and bothered, the Ashman wants to play games.

 _Literally_ play games.

Lancelot has Gawain wrapped around his little finger, though. Gawain doubts he’ll ever deny the Ashman anything, not if it’s within his power to give. So he picks up the dice, says, “Snake eyes.” Then, because he can still keep things moving along, “My belly.”

Lancelot nods his head in agreement, and so Gawain rolls, gets snake eyes because of course he does—it seems to be the easiest combination to roll. He giggles, giddy, and looks over to where Lancelot is blushing fire red. Then Lancelot leans closer, untucks Gawain undershirt from his breeches and pulls the hem up. He holds the fabric against Gawain’s chest before leaning in even farther and pressing his face to Gawain’s stomach. Gawain wraps an arm around the other’s shoulders to support him, sighing at the sensation of Lancelot’s warm breath against his skin. And the knowledge that the Ashman is breathing him, finding arousal in the smell of his skin and sweat and musk—it’s both intimate and exciting at the same time.

Lancelot lays a wet kiss to the skin underneath his bellybutton, then sneaks a hand between Gawain legs, cupping his half-mast erection. Gawain blows out a hard breath, murmurs, “Lance…”

Lancelot doesn’t reply with words, just sits back and goes for the laces on Gawain’s breeches. Gawain watches him, heat curling in his belly as Lancelot finishes with his breeches and pulls out his cock. The Ashman dips down, audibly breathing in, before he shyly traces the tip of his tongue along the head. 

“I believe it’s your turn to roll,” Gawain teases. His voice comes out hoarse and throaty.

Lancelot pulls away long enough to grab the dice and throw them, but he doesn’t make a wager or call a number. He just sinks back down, gently licking around Gawain’s crown. It’s honestly teasing more than anything, though Gawain knows Lancelot doesn’t mean to be coy. The Ashman likes laving his tongue and sucking kisses on the sensitive skin, prefers it over sealing his lips around Gawain’s girth and going down. 

Gawain had, back at the beginning of their relationship, thought the other fey just didn’t like the feel of a cockhead hitting the back of his throat. But when Gawain had told Lancelot he didn’t have to give oral sex, that there was plenty else they could do together, Lancelot had bashfully told him that his taste and smell were better enjoyed as such, with licks and kisses. And Gawain had almost finished right then and there, all over the Ashman’s face.

Now, though, Gawain closes his eyes and leans his head back, threading his fingers through Lancelot’s hair and allowing him his enjoyment. “That feels amazing, my love,” he whispers, and Lancelot mmm’s quietly in reply. 

“I’ve missed you. Missed this,” Lancelot murmurs, placing one last kiss to the tip of Gawain’s cock before straightening up and finding Gawain’s lips. The kiss is deep and wet, tinged with the bitter taste of his own precome.

“All you ever have to do is ask,” Gawain tells him. “If I have it in me to give, it’s yours. You know that.”

Lancelot leans his forehead against Gawain’s and just breathes, silence between them. 

Gawain strokes his hand down Lancelot's back, across soft scarred skin, and asks, “May I take you to bed?”

“Please,” Lancelot answers, and so Gawain stands, shucking his own shirt off before reaching for Lancelot. The other fey is already leveraging himself up on his one good leg, so Gawain wraps an arm around his waist and lets Lancelot lean against him. It’s only three hobbled steps over to the bed, and there Gawain lays him down, leans over him, and kisses those sweet lips.

Gawain gets his own breeches off easy, but Lancelot’s are an ordeal. They get hung up on the edge of the splint, and Gawain has to carefully, oh so carefully tug them down past the split and off his feet. But then he’s laid out on the furs in all his glory, blushing all the way down to his bellybutton, his cock hard and full between his legs. Gawain hovers over him, careful where he puts himself, careful of Lancelot's bad leg, and murmurs, “You are so lovely.”

“Gawain…” Lancelot murmurs, nonsensical.

Gawain kisses him again, could drown in the taste and feel of him, but then Lancelot wraps his legs around Gawain’s waist, drawing him close in that suggestive way he has—canting his hips up and pulling Gawain flush against him. Asking to be fucked without words. Gawain groans, and murmurs, “Careful of your leg.”

“It’s fine,” Lancelot replies. Then, “Please.”

“Alright,” Gawain allows. And then, because he has to be sure—he can’t read minds, even if he’s gotten exceptionally good at reading all of the little things Lancelot chooses not to say—“Is this what you want? You want me inside of you?”

Lancelot looks away, eyes to the candle on the nightstand. Still such a blushing virgin, even after a year of a full and healthy sex life. It only makes Gawain burn with desire and protectiveness both, makes him want every single time they’re together to be good and comfortable and loving.

So when he doesn’t get an answer, Gawain noses along Lancelot’s ash-stained cheek and whispers, “Is that what you want? My fingers, then my cock? Or no?”

“Yes,” Lancelot breathes out.

“Alright,” Gawain says, belly hot and tight with anticipation. 

He reaches for the shelves above the bed, Lancelot trying to follow and kiss, and pulls down their little bottle of oil. Gawain sits back on his haunches and finds Lancelot to be a picture, all stretched out and flushed red, legs spread wide. Gawain takes Lancelot’s bad leg by the knee, hefts it so it’s thrown over his own shoulder. Easy enough to hold onto him there, keep him from harming himself while he wriggles around in pleasure. It also tilts his hips up at a _delightful_ angle.

“Look at you,” Gawain murmurs, trailing his thumb down the line of Lancelot’s perineum, stopping at his pink little hole. The tiny furl flutters under Gawain’s finger, and Lancelot makes a breathy noise, something Gawain might call a whimper if it were anyone else. “I know,” Gawain says, gentle, and pulls his hand away to wet his fingers with oil.

He starts with one finger even though Lancelot could probably take two, usually does and has in the past. But it’s been a while for them, and Lancelot is always tight, always needs plenty of prep before he’s ready. So Gawain goes slow, takes his time about it—this part has never been a chore for him, has never been a means to an end or an unfavorable necessity. No, he loves watching his fingers sink into Lancelot’s body, loves watching Lancelot’s body take him and cling to him…

He loves finding that little nub inside and letting his fingertips tease it, loves watching Lancelot’s cock leak all over his belly, loves feeling Lancelot's muscles tense and quiver in pleasure, and especially loves the quiet sounds that spill from Lancelot’s mouth. The Ashman isn’t loud in bed, but he does sigh and pant and huff, sweet little noises of desperation and pleasure.

Gawain hangs onto Lancelot’s bad leg as the other fey tries to ride his hand—three fingers in, stretched out nicely. “Look at you,” Gawain repeats. “Are you ready for me? You feel ready…”

Lancelot meets his eye, feeling bold for the moment apparently, and replies, “Please.”

Gawain nods, drips a bit more oil over Lancelot’s rear just to be safe, then sets the bottle aside. “Alright, love,” he murmurs, settling Lancelot’s thighs around his waist. “Be careful with your leg. Try not to thrash about.”

Lancelot lets out a startled little laugh, then throws his arm across his face. “It’s fine,” he says, muffled. “I’m not going to hurt myself.”

Gawain chuckles as well and leans down to nibble at the Ashman’s hipbone. Lancelot squirms underneath him, beyond impatient, and so Gawain straightens back up, once again murmurs, “Alright, love.”

He takes himself in hand and rubs his cockhead against that little pucker, waits until Lancelot breathes in then exhales heavy and then, _then_ he eases inside, nice and slow. He gets about halfway sheathed before he meets resistance, feels Lancelot’s fingertips touch his belly as well, a silent warning— _wait, too much, give me a moment._ The Ashman’s other arm is still flung across his face, hiding his expression, so Gawain just strokes gentle hands down his thighs, waits for him to relax. 

Their breathing sounds loud in the otherwise quiet space. The light sheen of sweat on Lancelot’s skin looks like glittering gold in the candlelight. “You are amazing,” Gawain murmurs.

Lancelot lets out a shaky breath, and his fingers trail along Gawain’s belly, petting. “Alright,” he says, not uncovering his face. “Alright, you can… go ahead.”

Gawain nods, even if Lancelot can’t see him, before gently rocking his hips—back a tiny bit, adjust the angle, and then he sinks in easy. He hears the gust of air leave Lancelot’s lungs, watches the other’s back arch and feels his thighs clutch tight. “Yes, love,” Gawain tells him. “That’s it. Just like that.”

Lancelot feels amazing, melting hot inside and so, so soft. But then it’s how he always feels, more wonderful in his intimacy and familiarity than in anything else. Gawain had always thought having only one partner for so long would grow boring, but gods, he’d been so wrong. He’s grown to know this body underneath him as well as he knows his own, knows just how to make it twist and writhe and eventually spend itself so sweetly. 

And in turn, Lancelot knows him, knows _only_ him. He'd been a virgin the first time, _all_ those first times—everything from that first quick and clumsy grind to the first time Lancelot had gotten his prick wet. Gawain thinks about it all sometimes, thinks about the fact that Lancelot has had no other. No one else. It burns Gawain up inside, makes him so very protective. Makes him want and love so very fiercely.

Gawain eases his hips back a fraction, before rocking back in. _So good._ Lancelot moans, soft and throaty, before murmuring, “Slow—close.” 

It’s so quiet it’s almost inaudible, muffled further by the arm still thrown across Lancelot’s face. But Gawain’s listening, attuned to him, and he obeys because he can’t imagine doing anything else. He eases a hand underneath Lancelot, splays it across the small of his back and tilts his hips up, keeps him curled close while he leans down over him. He props himself up on one elbow, and Lancelot hooks his thighs around Gawain’s ribcage, easy and natural at this point. How many times have they made love in this position, Gawain wonders? Hundreds, probably. 

Lancelot uncovers his face to wrap his arms around Gawain, and he buries his face into Gawain’s throat instead. Gawain can hear him sniffing, quick little inhales, breathing in the scent of sweat and sex between them. Gawain pushes his hips into Lancelot’s ass, burying himself as deep inside as he can, and Lancelot lets out a strangled little moan, breath warm against Gawain’s skin.

And so he fucks good and slow and deep, smiling at the throaty sighs he gets from Lancelot. He can feel himself winding up, that pressure building low in his belly, but it’s not urgent. He doesn’t feel desperate, doesn’t feel like he’s chasing a finish. His skin feels tingly, oversensitive where they’re touching, Lancelot’s mouth a brand where’s it’s open against the apple of his throat. Lancelot clenches around his cock, a quick little flutter of his muscles, and then moans, thighs tight where they’re gripping his ribcage. Gawain ducks his head until he finds Lancelot’s mouth, kisses him slow and wet and dirty, then murmurs, “You’re incredible.”

“I—my God,” Lancelot whispers, wrecked, and Gawain knows what that means. He kisses his Ashman again, quick, before reaching a hand between them, finds Lancelot’s balls clutched up tight. Gawain rubs them, warm and gentle, before letting his hand wander. He slides his palm up the underside of Lancelot’s cock, settling on the little spot just underneath his cockhead, that place where he’s most sensitive. He rubs his thumb there, soft and slow, and feels Lancelot arch up into his touch, a startled little breath escaping.

“That’s it, my love. Go on,” Gawain murmurs, and Lancelot tenses underneath him then spends himself wet against his belly, body straining and shaking—and gods, but he’s beautiful, and he’s Gawain’s, and Gawain loves him so damn much. Gawain fucks him through it, keeps the slow steady rhythm that Lancelot likes best, nails that place inside that makes Lancelot tremble in pleasure, and stops only when Lancelot flinches away, fingertips gently pressing into Gawain’s chest.

Lancelot relaxes boneless after, legs unhooking from Gawain’s sides and falling open. His hands run up Gawain’s back before they bury themselves in Gawain’s hair, stroking through the curls. Gawain smiles, ducking his head to find his lips, and feels Lancelot smiling back into the kiss.

“Good?” Gawain asks, leaning back to look down at Lancelot. 

Lancelot meets his gaze, still flushed bright red but no longer trying to hide, and murmurs, “Yes. It’s always good.”

Gawain smiles, affection curling in his chest, before kissing him again. Then, “May I finish inside you?”

Lancelot nods—he always does, always says yes, but Gawain still always asks permission. He knows what it’s like to be fucked open, to feel ‘finished’ after he spends himself, and so he never wants to just assume when it comes to Lancelot. 

But as it is, he sits up and pulls Lancelot along with him, enjoys the image of Lancelot spread boneless across the furs while he fucks back into him. Lancelot lets out this deep-bellied sigh of sheer bliss, stretching his back out and folding his arms behind his head. His cock’s beginning to soften, his seed messy on his stomach, and Gawain did that, Gawain did that for him. 

Gawain reaches out, smears a fingertip through one of the white stripes across Lancelot’s belly, and then pops the finger in his mouth, tastes bitter salt. Lancelot groans, quiet, and then whispers, “G’wain…”

It doesn’t take Gawain long. He holds onto Lancelot and fucks deep, lifting Lancelot's hips into each thrust. The clutch of Lancelot’s body and the sight of him laid out there, well-fucked and relaxed and satisfied—it’s enough, it’s more than enough. He pushes in one last time, stays deep, and spends himself there, warm and held tight. Lancelot moans underneath him, eyes half-lidded as he watches Gawain, still blushing furiously but drunk on his pleasure now, relaxed enough to look and see, not hide. 

Lancelot reaches for Gawain after, an easy request to fill, so Gawain pulls out slow and gentle then lies down, curled close next to the Ashman. Lancelot rolls toward him, nuzzling at his cheek, his throat, his collarbone—his usual post-coital behavior, quiet affection combined with obvious scenting. Gawain lets him do what he will, just combs his fingers through the Ashman’s hair, feeling lazy and sated. 

Gods, the sex is always so good…

“Give me a few minutes,” Gawain says. “Then I’ll get a rag, clean us up.”

“It is alright. No rush,” Lancelot tells him. “You smell nice.”

Gawain chuckles and doesn’t comment on that. 

Eventually, Lancelot murmurs, “I truly needed that.”

“It had been a while,” Gawain agrees, but Lancelot shakes his head.

“No, I needed to… _be_ with you, like this,” Lancelot says, and Gawain doesn’t really understand—he thought that’s what they’d already said—but he nods all the same.

“I love you so very much,” Gawain tells him, and Lancelot practically melts into him, pressing his face to Gawain’s throat and hiccupping out a wet little breath. And suddenly, Gawain gets it, can’t believe he didn’t before. Lancelot’s never been much for words, expresses himself physically more than anything else—a pat on the back, a hand on the shoulder, a hug…

Sex.

Gawain remembers that conversation from the night Lancelot had broken his ankle—talk of shame and worthiness. Gawain sighs, closing his eyes, and says, “You do not have to _please_ me to…”

Lancelot huffs, irritated, and interrupts, “Do not flatter yourself. It’s just that I—I feel better when we are together. Together intimately… and plenty. It brings me happiness and… and assurance, I suppose.”

“Oh,” Gawain says. He cranes his neck to find Lancelot’s eyes. They’re so blue, open and vulnerable, and Gawain tells him, "I understand. It does the same for me.”

Lancelot smiles a bit, before pillowing his head on Gawain’s chest. His hair is soft, damp with sweat, and Gawain threads his fingers through it. He’ll close his eyes, he decides, just for a moment. He’s tired, wrung dry, limbs heavy…

He doesn’t wake until the next morning, all sticky with dried sweat and semen, but it’s all worth it for Lancelot’s soft and sleepy smile.


End file.
